


Heart of glass

by lubilu17



Series: I Rebel; Therefore I Exist [2]
Category: Hamilton-Miranda
Genre: Again based of caw.chan's rebel AU, John is sad, M/M, Refrenced Child Abuse, Underage Drinking, and i really like writing extended metaphors, can someone teach me how to tag these things, like John loves Alex a shit ton but Alex don't agree., unreqited love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 05:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11640069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lubilu17/pseuds/lubilu17
Summary: From a young age John had compared his heart to a shard of glass, cold, fragile, breakable. He spent hours trying to make the glass thicker, safer. Spent hours trying to not be as fragile. Spent hours trying to patch up broken shards.





	Heart of glass

**Author's Note:**

> Completely based off caw.chan's rebel AU on instagram, like it's the greatest holy shit. 
> 
> This really stressed me out to write but never mind.

From a young age John had compared his heart to a shard of glass, cold, fragile, breakable. He spent hours trying to make the glass thicker, safer. Spent hours trying to not be as fragile. Spent hours trying to patch up broken shards.

In his opinion his father had a heart made of stone, nothing would come out and nothing could get to him. Many people refer to cold people as having a heart of ice, but ice can be broken. John learnt how to safely move round his father as to not smash his glass heart on jagged stone. 

Sharp words felt like stone daggers burying themselves in thin layers of glass. The hits, though less frequent that the sharp words, felt like stone swords cracking open glass. The bruises felt like small cracks in glass infused with stone.

If he was glass, his father stone, then his younger sibling had hearts made of pure gold , innocent, protected from stone by the thinnest layer of glass. Young children protected from their father by their oldest brother.

At twelve John started to notice the way boys in his class would smile at him, the way they would interact with him, the way they would make eye contact with him. At twelve John started to realise that maybe he wasn't the perfect son his father was trying to get him to be. At twelve John started to become the person his father never wanted to become.

The cracks in the glass started to get filled.

 

At fifteen John met Francis, a boy only a few months younger than a John himself, when he was transferred to John's school. John was given the job of showing him round the school. He couldn't help but notice the way Francis would look at John with a spark of mischief in his eyes. It was a look that made John blush scarlet against his freckles, a blush which made Francis laugh a deep laugh, throwing his head back. The two became close, never being seen without the other. To John's surprise his father liked Francis, but that could have just been the fact that Francis got John out of the house, stopped him from drawing.

They would spend all their time together laughing, talking, playing different sports. All the while John fell more in love with the the spark of electricity in his eyes, the curl of his lips whilst he smirked, the twitch of his fingers against the desk. Francis could drown out the pain of Johns father with only a few kind words, words that Francis could never find out how much they helped John. 

At fifteen, after passing a bottle of whiskey between the pair, Francis pleased a light kiss against Johns mouth, in the future John would look back at this moment as the moment which changed his entire life, the moment John realised he could never be the man his father wanted to be. In that moment he pressed his lips back to Francis' with more force. Hands locked in John's curls pulling the two together. Chapped lips pressing butterfly kisses onto all of Johns freckles, on his face, on his neck, on his hands. Together they fell back on to Francis' bed laughing quietly as to not wake anyone else in the house, even though it felt like they were the only two people in the world. 

For a year the kisses became more passionate, longer. In a span of months John count of how many times he said I love you to Francis however, it remained to be more times than he had said it to anyone else in his family. For the time they were together John could actually say he was happy, a feat he had thought was unheard of after his mothers death. Whiskey flavoured kisses became more frequent between the pair as they grew older. 

Drops of whiskey started to heal the stone wounds in Johns glass heart. 

 

At nineteen John moved to New York, leaving behind whiskey kisses, gold and stone hearts, and a love story for the ages. At nineteen John met his roommate, Hercules Mulligan, a man who with his huge stature could scare off even the most violent of attackers with just a raised eyebrow. A man who in his spare time knitted John a beanie to attempt to tame his wild curls. A man who comforted John after Francis decided a long distance relationship was too difficult for him to handle.

Deep blue wool started to stitch up the crack in John's glass heart made by stone daggers and drops of whiskey. 

At twenty John met Alexander Hamilton, a hurricane of a man. They met at one of John's classmates parties. Skin against skin, the bass of a song John didn't know vibrating the wall, Alex's eyes meeting his. Eyes that John knew he could fall in love with. As their hands met to exchange numbers John almost jerked his hand back as a surge of electricity passed through their joined fingers. 

At twenty one John realised he was in love with his best friend. In love with the way he could never stop working, in love the way he always wanted to go to McDonalds in the middle of the night, in love with the way he would spend hours designing video games with Peggy that would never get made. 

Alex added a spark of heat to John's cold heart. 

 

At twenty seven John moved into an apartment with his three best friends, Alexander, Hercules, and Lafayette. He couldn't decide whether it was good that he had to share a bed with Alexander, who after six years John was still ridiculously in love with. Every time John and Alex fall into bed together- limbs intertwined, hot kisses pressed against freckled chest, Alex's beard scratching John's thighs and neck-John was reminded how Alex could never love him, how he was just a fun, drunken night for Alex. 

It only took Alex to not mention the night before to break John's heart even further. The look on Lafayette's face as John wrapped a scarf around his neck covering the dark marks Alex had left there the night before told him that he knew how John felt. It was a look of pity, a look that made John feel sick to his stomach. 

It was a series of texts. A series of nine texts. It wasn't as if John didn't know about Alex's relationship with Thomas, if it could even be called a relationship. Countless times Alex had come home before sunrise with his hair messy and clothes on strangely and on some rare occasions with one of Thomas' large shirts hanging off his slender frame. A series of texts stating Alex had no feelings for John and would be staying at Thomas' for the night. 

It was there on the balcony staring out over the city where the stone, the whiskey and heat finally ripped apart blue wool stitching. John's glass heart shattered.


End file.
